Missing You
by fighting-john-watsons-war
Summary: John might be a survivor, but some days it's just too hard. All this fighting on, for what? What was worth living for now? Joint authorship with PhoenixFlame123


_I can't remember Dad _  
_And I can't remember Mom _  
_Aunts and uncles aren't quite the same_

John really couldn't remember a whole lot about his life before Afghanistan for a myriad of reasons. One, there was his drunk of a sister - he kept in touch, but only just enough to be considered decent. He didn't want to remember much of her other than the happy little girl she had been once upon a yesteryear.

Did John have a Mind Palace? No, not ever. He never really tried and he didn't want to - it reminded him too much of Sherlock. But he did delete Harry quite successfully for an _ordinary _person.

His parents - he knew almost nothing about them. Both of them were the only child in their families. His father never really cared about him when he was young, spent all of his time _at work_, working late nights quite often and John wasn't an idiot, he knew what was going on - moved on, went to uni for medicine and decided that he might as well just enlist for all the good school wasn't doing him. He deleted his father as well.

His mum died when he was four. She was pretty, he thought. Certainly sweet. Always ready for a hug. Sometimes a picture of her surfaced before his father took it down and burned it. John learned how to hoard, how to protect.

_But he failed to protect the most important thing - no! It wasn't his fault - was it?_

_Stop. You're making it worse, Watson. Stop._

_But I had him, and life seemed fair_  
_Yes, when I had him, he was there _  
_To give me strength, show concern _  
_Ask for nothing in return_  
_Say hello, talk me through _  
_Do the things that friends should do_

And when he came home from the war, with no one and nothing to his name, Mike Stamford had effectively changed his life. He had Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting five-year-old. Sherlock really didn't do emotions. That was okay. Better feeling nothing than feeling pity. And all Sherlock had asked for being there when he had a nightmare, or a bad day, or when he was strapped with explosives, was that John just trust him. How could John say no? He put his life in Sherlock's hands every day - Sherlock would do the right thing, he knew it. He was never concerned with his own life, even when he was being shot at. Sherlock just needed someone to lean on him, believe in him. John was more than willing.

_"I don't have friends. Just one."_

John knew what that was like.

_And I'm missing you_  
_I'm just missing you_

Every day without Sherlock was no real day at all.

_It was dull._

* * *

_There it is, I'm gone  
__And I've hung him out to dry_

He had no way of knowing that Sherlock Holmes was still alive - he hallucinated and hoped but he knew it was just another delusion. He had no way of knowing that Mycroft was in on it, and so was sweet little Molly Hooper, and they were keeping him safe and Sherlock up to date.  
He had no way of knowing how guilty Sherlock felt, _all the time._

_ Sherlock had never felt guilty before. But now he did._

_The joy he knew I felt, well, it never was a lie. _  
_But when I had him, my life was fine_  
_When I had him, he was mine_

John Watson changed Sherlock Holmes that very first day - Sherlock would've thought John would've moved out, gone with someone less dangerous to be around - but that's not right, he knew John thrived on adrenaline, just like he did. So he gave John all he could in that area, for once in his life wasn't completely selfish - there was someone else to think of now and even though he had no idea what to do, he loved it.  
John never complained about the constant exposure to crazed criminals, not once. Sherlock knew he wouldn't. Then Moriarty surfaced himself and everything took a horrifying turn - is this what it felt like, facing someone of equal intelligence? Sherlock didn't like it. His mind was fully stimulated for a change, but his own enjoyment wasn't worth_ this_.

But his blogger stuck around, just as Sherlock knew he would.

_ I'm sorry, he cried. I wish I was strong enough to make you go, save yourself._

_ I'm sorry I had to die to save you._

_He'd share his thoughts, be a friend_  
_Stick with me until the end _  
_Watch a movie, roller-skate _  
_Save the world from fear and hate_

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt wanted, and it was quite possibly the best feeling he'd ever experienced - not, of course, that he'd ever admit it.  
John was always there, needing him.

John gave Sherlock new purpose.

_ I'm sorry I was too selfish. I kept you around against my better judgment._

_ I'm sorry I was finally selfless. My death was meant to save your life, but that look on your face at...my grave...maybe it wasn't all for the best after all. _

_And I'm missing you_  
_I'm just missing you_

Once, alone was all Sherlock had. Then the doctor gave him a new lease on life - and now he was alone again, but worse. Because this time he knew he was missed, because this time he knew it was worth missing.

_ Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

_Alone protects_ you.

_ I'm so sorry._

* * *

_Now I'm all alone _  
_Now you're gone for good _  
_Now I'm stuck right here wishing I understood_

John had nobody in the world left to him. He started the way he was just after Afghanistan, when he yearned for the tension of a fight to ensnare him, give a feeling of belonging to a man who belonged nowhere.

And all he could think about was how Sherlock reached out to him, crying on the rooftop, face twisted in pain.

_"This is my note. It's what people do."_

_ Why did he have to jump? Why couldn't he have lived? Just one more miracle for me?_

_ Why?_

_You gave me hope when life wasn't right_  
_You gave me company every night_  
_And I'm missing you_  
_I'm just missing you_  
_I'm just missing you_  
_I'm just missing you_

* * *

Mycroft sighed as he watched the live video feeds from 221B Baker Street. John was worked into a bad state - he expected nothing less. He wanted to help, but at this point in time his appearance would only be a hindrance.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Three insistent raps on his office door.

He never removed his eyes from the screen, but called out two simple words:

"Come in."

The door creaked open - _must remember to get that fixed_ - and a cell phone was casually tossed with an ease denoting practice, and it was plucked out of the air with grace much the same. The phone flipped open and Mycroft snorted at the caller ID. How ironic he would call _now_.

"It's good to hear from you, Sherlock."

"Wish I could say the same." This wasn't his brother. His brother wasn't supposed to have a rough, raspy voice. Even the trademark sarcasm was a bit less pointed and direct. Sherlock didn't sound normal, he sounded weary, like - he had almost given up..._no_.

"What do you need?" There was nothing Mycroft wouldn't do to help. It had already been so long. To be sure, a difficult job - maybe it was more wishful thinking on his part, thinking Sherlock could be done so quickly.

"I'm done. I need to come home."

_ Oh. Good._

Done, already? Impressive. As long as it had been, the web was indeed quite extensive. As per (annoying) usual, Sherlock could pick up on his train of thought through the thoughtful silence.

"I had the homeless network trail them around. It was dull."

But it wasn't, because this Sherlock sounded lifeless. Something _must_ have happened. As it was, it was best to return now. Mycroft had repaired his brother's reputation as best he could. The media interest had died down. Sherlock could return to life in peace. Secluded as ever, naturally - neither of them wanted another circus.

"I'll have you picked up," he commanded. "You'll be staying with me and_ laying low_. There are a few loose ends here before you can resume life as usual."

It was a mark of how tired Sherlock was that he agreed.

It was a mark of how tired Mycroft was that he didn't question why.

John wouldn't get to know that Sherlock was alive, not yet.

_ I'm sorry, my friend. _

But it honestly couldn't be helped. His brother was coming home.

_Soon. _


End file.
